


Greener Grass, Nicer Carpets

by gala_apples



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Class Differences, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On vacation from Ash's School For Seelie Fey, Hale visits Dyson's house. He seems to like the run down-worn out-thread bare surroundings more than makes sense to Dyson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greener Grass, Nicer Carpets

Dyson’s not surprised that Hale wants to hang out. The last four days, the first in the two week winter vacation, Dyson’s either been with Hale, or alone at home. He doesn’t really have friends to go catch up with, all his friends are back at Ash’s School for the Seelie Fae. He’s pretty sure it’s the same for Hale. His family obligations and alliance-friendships don’t count, as far as Dyson is concerned. Any friend that can’t allow for a change in personality isn’t a friend. That’s why he doesn’t have a pack anymore.

Dyson is incredibly surprised that Hale has proven he wants to hang out by being on Dyson’s sidewalk. Hale has a mansion, with enough rooms they need to be classified into wings. Hale has a butler. Hale has separate kitchens for his family of four and all the staff. There is less than no reason he should be here.

“How long were you ringing the doorbell for before you realised it was broken?” Dyson tries for a laugh at the end of his question, because his other option is cringing with embarrassment, and blushing cheeks will only make this worse.

Hale shrugs, a glint to his eye Dyson doesn’t quite get. “If it had bothered me, I would have texted you.” He weaves past Dyson to stand at the edge of the small living room. “Hang here, or in your bedroom? No. I take it back. I want to see your bedroom.”

Dyson knows Hale well enough to know that if he tries to say no, Hale will do it anyway. He’s always been that way, probably a product of being one of the richest fey in the world. Dyson sighs then closes the front door and leads Hale down the short hallway. The hall’s wallpaper is peeling at the seams, no amount of running over it with a damp sponge can get it to stick to the wall again. He doesn’t need to point out his room. There are only three doors; the bathroom, his room, and his parents room. His door is the only room with vending machine bumper stickers all over it.

Dyson wonders what Hale sees first when he opens the door. The small size of the room? The fact that there’s no walk in closet or an adjoining bathroom? The space saving loft bed with bookshelves full of books and a few throw pillows underneath? The tiny closet with a tinier tv on the top shelf, about level with the bed? His choice of wall coverings? 

“You...like guys?”

The magazine pages taped to the wall then. Dyson crosses his arms defensively, shrugs once his hands are tucked in his armpits. 

“And your parents let you decorate your room with ripped out magazine pages!”

“Well we can’t all be crazy rich with a live in interior decorator,” he snaps.

“No. I like it. I like your whole house man. You can tell a good kind of person lives here. Not like my fuckin’ snotty house.”

“You’re seriously telling me you like lower class better than upper class?”

Part of Dyson is waiting for Hale to deny the language, assure him he doesn’t consider him lower class. Instead he gets enthusiastic agreement. “Yes! More than like, man. It’s sexy.”

“Sexy,” he repeats.

“Yeah. I’ve been getting marriage proposals since I was an infant. Not just from fey in Clan Zamora either. Everyone wants to get into a Santiago’s contact list. But you. You can touch whoever you want, make out with whoever you want, fuck whoever you want.”

“Not whoever,” the words slip out and he regrets them the instant he says them.

“Okay, yeah, maybe not for you because of your whole one true love mate for life wolf thing, but-”

Dyson interrupts, feeling slandered that Hale thinks he’s innocent, probably a virgin. “Dude, I can have sex. There’s a difference between sex and love.”

“So, then-”

“But I still can’t have whoever I want. Like...” oh, fuck it. “Like you. No amount of low class can get me in your bed.”

A beat of silence, and then Dyson asks “is this gonna get you all weird?” expecting a weak denial then the inevitable shying away.

Hale grins. “Did I ever tell you I’m really into low brow wolves?”

“Uh.”

“One of the thousand applicants was a male. It’s not even that they would care about me being bi, they’d just line up potential men, with the women. But there would be straight boys willing to suck dick to be a Santiago. But you. You actually mean it.”

“If you like lowbrow you’re gonna love redneck.” Dyson leads Hale out the back door. It’s rare he spends time in the backyard. There’s nothing to do or see, beside the rusting car on cinderblocks. Half the houses on the street have them, and if Hale is serious about the class thing he should be creaming his jeans.

The car in the yard is a destroyed Chevy. It was the first and last impulse buy Dad ever purchased. It doesn’t run and it never will and some day soon it’ll be more rust than car. But Dyson’s got some pretty good memories of the rustbucket. It was the first place he ever masturbated that wasn’t in his bed, coming almost before he started from the thrill of doing it outdoors. It was the first -and last- place he ever kissed a girl. And he knows from experience there is totally enough room to get fucked on the hood.

“You have-”

“A rusting car. Yeah, I know.”

“No. You have yellow grass. Dead grass. My dad would make sure the landscaper never worked in the industry again. Although that car is amazing.”

Hale sounds distinctly aroused, though Dyson’s trying to respect his privacy and not inhale to know for sure. Dyson’s not sure he gets it. To him it’s just his back yard, nothing super sexy about it. But if Hale likes it enough to like him, then Dyson’s not going to complain. To get the show on the road he leans against the navy and orange car and unzips his jeans. If they get rust stains it’ll be worth it, as long as he gets a handhob from Hale.

Half a minute later and he’s stroked himself to hardness, and Hale is still only watching, frozen on the cracked patio block. Dyson puts a thin layer of concern over his sarcasm as he asks “decided you aren’t bicurious?”

The layer must not be thick enough, because Hale answers snappily. “Shut up. I’ve sucked dick. I just haven’t done it outside.” 

His tone makes it obvious outside is equivalent to inside an elementary school or a nursing home, so Dyson tries to make him feel better. “It’s not _outside_ outside. No one will see you. It’s not like you’re rimming over the shrubbery on the front lawn. Consider potential neighbours a side effect of not being rich enough to have ten acres.” Or however many Hale has. Probably more than ten. Dyson only knows it’s a measuring system, not what is a lot and what’s a little.

“You sure know how to sweet talk,” he replies, still snappy. Then his tone is betrayed when Hale looks over the fence at the neighbours’ house with a stronger dose of that glint he hasn’t really lost the whole time he’s been here.

Dyson stops leaning against the beautiful pile of rust so he can cross the yard and take Hale’s hand. It’s the hand that was down his jeans, a bit wet with precome, and maybe it’s a test for Hale. See if he can handle it, or if the blowjob thing was a bluff. Hale doesn’t let go when he realises, just follows him the few steps to the car. 

“Come on. On the car.”

The hood is shallow but wide, wide enough to sit side by side. When they’re both situated Hale undoes his own jeans. A looser fit than Dyson’s, they promise more room to maneuver. Dyson spits on his left hand, which gets him a weird look from Hale. No doubt he uses some designer lube, maybe with gold flakes in it. Still, there’s not a word of complaint when Dyson curls his saliva-wet fingers around Hale’s shaft. The only sound is the car creaking as Hale thrusts up into his grip.

Hale protests when his hand stills, but Dyson ignores it. Class fantasy or not, there’s a difference between being broke and that turning Hale on, and being his damn servant. “This isn’t a one way street. I’ll keep on when you start.”

Thankfully, he takes the hint. Dyson keeps his promise, the moment Hale is touching him he goes back to jerking off his friend. Hale’s hand is softer than his own. It’s not much of a surprise that a rich siren has less callouses than a poor werewolf, but Dyson wouldn’t say one is better than the other. Either way it’s novelty. Either way they’re both coming, Hale’s lips pursed shut so he doesn’t scream in a way that affects Dyson.

“It’s so awesome that you get to do this all the time,” Hale says, voice a little breathy.

Dyson shrugs and wipes his hand on the car. He doesn’t exactly do this all the time, but he gets what Hale is saying. He does have a kind of freedom that Hale doesn’t.


End file.
